


Rain

by CannibalKats



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:00:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CannibalKats/pseuds/CannibalKats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair catches Nevaeh in the rain.  Fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain

Lothering was barely behind them and Alistair was still on edge. It was early in the evening, barely past dusk but they’d all retired to their tents to hide from the rain. He lay in his tent thumbing the rose he found in Lothering trying to think of anything but Ostagar. Between the archdemon and the survivor’s guilt he rarely slept anymore. He hoped the soothing sound of the rain on the oiled canvas tent would help.

Alistair is just starting to drift off when he hears the rustling from Nevaeh’s tent. The rose is back between the heavy pages of his book but he finds his hand wandering to touch the hard cover as he sees her face in his mind. He can hear her arguing with Sten about being on watch. The face in his mind shifting to a frown; he can clearly picture the way her nose crinkles, the shape her vallaslin takes when she screws up her mouth in frustration. He taps his fingers on the cover of the book, maker he is in too deep.

He hears her tell the Qunari to _take a fucking break_ and he hears someone’s hands slap against thighs. He chuckles to himself imagining Sten throwing his hands up in frustration at an elf half his size. The tent flap swings open with a scatter of rain drops and a large, wet, Qunari huffs inside. His scowl seems deeper set then usual and he mumbles something in Qunlat that _has_ to be a curse.

“Are all your women like that?” He asks with an accusatory glare.

“M-mine?” Alistair stammers. “I mean, no. I mean I don’t know, I’m not an elf.” Sten simply glares at him. “She’s Dalish?” He offers weakly, he can’t tell if the _very large_ man is looking for an answer or commiseration.

Sten grunts and lays down, arms crossed over his chest. Alistair is more than a little jealous when the Qunari is asleep minutes later. He closes his eyes and listens to the rain plip plopping on the taunt surface of the tent. It’s not long before he’s aware of another sound, a soft humming and the occasional splash.

Giving up on the chance of sleep in the near future he slips to the mouth of the tent and pulls the flap aside just enough to look around. At first he doesn’t see her, and then he catches the silver shine of her hair in the moonlight. There are curls plastered to her face, bright against her dark skin, almost blending with the swirls of her vallaslin.

Her eyes are closed, her head thrown back. Her arms are thrown to the sides and she’s almost dancing as she spins in circles. He watches her satisfied smile as she runs bare foot through a puddle and he can feel a smile spread across his own face. He watches her movements settle as she finds a spot across from the tents by their failed fire, the movements of her hands and lips as she summons a wisp.

She speaks quietly to it, in lilting Elhven. He watches the blue of her eyes glow in the light of the wisp, the glint of it’s light reflected in the rain drops that shower her, like tiny fireworks as they break against her. The wisp darts off and returns minutes later dropping something in her lap.

She shakes her head, and in profile he can see serenity reflected in her eyes and the softness of her mouth, it’s an expression that he’s never seen her wear before. He watches the wisp leave and return four more times before he makes up his mind. He pulls his head back inside the tent, with no little effort he dresses quietly and slips out.

Nevaeh knows she’s being watched, she’s not sure when he started but she knows for certain when she summons the wisp. The air changes, a subtle change in pressure that’s not attributed to the storm and she feels a shutter of déjà vu, it’s the feeling of Templars watching her spirit studies lesson; the instinctual draw on their power when a mage summons anything no matter how harmless.

“Hullo Alistair,” she says without turning.

The wisp appears as he settles down beside her. There’s a small pile of pebbles and various interesting pieces of forest debris in front of her. She shakes her head at the tiny spirit and sighs. There’s a wave of her hand and the wisp shimmers and fades, Alistair half expects an accompanying _pop_.

“I suppose you’ve a lovely Templar lecture for me.”

“I’m not a Templar.”

“Then why are you here?”

He thinks about the rose pressed inside a book in his tent. He couldn’t even say what the book was called, he’d shamelessly lifted it in Lothering, but he could describe every petal of the pretty flower. He glances at her face scowling up at him. “I couldn’t sleep.” He offers the words with a shrug and watches her relax. “Why are you?”

She leans back and smiles into the sky. “I like the rain.”

The look on her face is bliss, her smile spreading as she inhales the smell of fresh rain and forest floor. He thinks about trailing kisses along her exposed neck and blushes. “What was it you were trying to find?” He forces himself to say; to think of anything but his lips on hers.

“Did Duncan mention Tamlen, when he sent word?”

“The boy who didn’t survive?”

There’s a sharp sound as her breath whistles through her teeth. “Yes,” the word is spoken through gritted teeth and it takes her a moment to explain. “We were raised together; his mother nursed me when mine _left_.” She speaks the word carefully, weighing it in her mouth; her first time speaking the truth. “Tamlen was like my brother, and we had little Halla figures when we were children. Master Ilen had carved them out of shed antlers they were almost identical. We lost them out here just before the templars took me away.”

“I’m sorry.”

She waves a hand at him. “It wasn’t you. Sometimes wisps can bring you things but you’ve got to be careful, one of the girls in my summoning lesson asked a wisp to bring her one of her grandmother’s rings.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“Well her grandmother had died, and the wisp brought the ring, but it was still on her finger.”

Alistair snorted. “Maker!”

“It’s not the wisps fault, it did what she asked.” Her voice is defensive, and he reminds himself that she’s an apostate, escaped from the circle. He wonders if she’ll ever see beyond his Templar training. “But it’s hard to explain the smooth carvings and where were lost them, so I’ve got this collection,” she gestures to the pile between her feet.

“But no digits at least,” he offers her a crooked smile and she _almost_ laughs.

“At _least_.” She looks into the trees, the ghost of a smile on her face.

The rain has let up; the moon light is caught in a halo of frizz and his fingers twitch with the impulse to smooth her hair, touch her face. She looks so serene looking off into the forest that he hates to interrupt her thoughts.

He stands careful not to disturb her; cold damp and immediately aware of her missing warmth. Her fingers brush his when he turns and he looks down at where she sits. She’s not looking at him but she holds him there by the tips of her fingers.

“Could you,” her fingers twitch against his and her hand drops. “Stay. Please.”


End file.
